Over the Flowing Sea
by StarSpray
Summary: The storm that destroys Númenor reaches the coast of Middle-earth.


_Written for the 2019 Back to Middle-earth Bingo, for the prompts 'Mourning Losses' and 'Downfall of __Númenor' on the Second Age card, and 'Adviser' on the Elements of Elrond card._

* * *

In the dream, Elrond stood upon a tall place, gazing out over green lands dotted with towns and spires and criss-crossed with rows. It should have been beautiful—and once it had been. Now the air was thick with smoke and ash falling like snow, and darkness obscured the sky and the sun and the stars. But the worst was the great dark wave stretching up, and up, and up beyond sight, coming forth out of the west to crash down upon the land, black and inescapable.

He woke with a gasp to a loud crash, and the earth shaking beneath him, as though the dream were reality. With trembling hands he pushed the blankets away and stumbled across the room to the window. Rain lashed against it and the wind howled outside. The crash he had heard may have been thunder, but it may have been something else. The ground continued to shake as he fumbled for a robe. Beneath the sounds of the storm he could hear cries of people and animals, afraid and hurt and in danger.

In the hallway he nearly collided with Gil-galad, also half-dressed and stumbling out of his room. "What is happening?" he demanded.

"I don't know!"

Disaster was the only word for it. The coast was shifting and rupturing, crumbling in some places and rising in others, as waves pounded against the shores and rushed up rivers. It was all the Elves and Men of Lindon could do to save their people and their animals; that year's harvest was lost in a matter of hours, and all three of their large cities suffered incredible damage. Half of Forlond fell into the harbor.

And no one knew why. Neither Ossë nor Ulmo had spoken to Círdan for many months before the storms arose, which in itself had been worrisome, but no one had expected something like this. What had they done to call upon themselves the wrath of the Valar? Gil-galad called upon Elrond and Círdan and others for answers. Círdan could only shake his head.

Elrond, though, had been spending most of his time among the Faithful Númenóreans who had come to dwell in and around Lindon. Most had retreated eastward into Eriador, establishing towns on Lake Nenuial and near the North Downs, but there were many dwelling among the Elves, their eyes turned always westward in hopes of news that things were changing in Númenor, that they might return home. Many of them had spoken of ill dreams not unlike the one he had had the night the storms began. All of them were convinced that this destruction was merely a result of something worse on Númenor.

"They believe Ar-Pharazôn went through with his plans to take an armada to the shores of Valinor itself," he said to Gil-galad. "And the Valar responded."

Gil-galad stared out of the window. It was not raining, but the sky was grey-green with roiling clouds, and from here they could see the choppy, violent seas. Some of their people had been out on it when it all began, and nothing had been heard from them since. "There is no way of knowing for certain," Gil-galad said finally, heavily, "until and unless Ulmo returns to speak to Círdan." He shook his head. "What could they have done to punish Númenor?"

"Drown it," said Erestor from where he sat on the floor by the fire, trying to clean a thick layer of muck off of his boots. Elrond and Gil-galad both turned sharply. "They raised the island, they could just as easily sink it."

"Surely not," Gil-galad protested, but without much conviction. Elrond said nothing. All of them, he suspected, were thinking of the Doom of the Noldor whose effects had reached far past the rebellion's leaders, or even that generation. He turned back to the window, feeling both Erestor's and Gil-galad's eyes on him. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to be back in Imladris, away from storms and Dooms and grief.

The next day dawned dark and grey. Elrond went riding up the new and shifting coast, searching for shipwrecks, or survivors of them. He was also searching for signs of Maglor, though he did not really expect to find anything. And he didn't. All he could do was hope that Maglor had not been anywhere near the coast when the storms had hit.

After three days he discovered the wreckage of one of the missing ships, and its ten sailors camped out on the beach, afraid to venture back south toward Lindon on the unstable land. They were more than happy to see a familiar face. "Master Elrond!" exclaimed Negen, leaping to his feet as Elrond approached. He was small and slender, with a pointed nose and chin, and bright green eyes and a cheerful personality that, it seemed, even barely surviving terrible upheaval could not dampen. "Are you here to rescue us?"

Elrond slid from the saddle, laughing in relief. "Not personally," he said. "Few of us have gone out searching for you on land. It's treacherous going in some places; safer to await a ship. If the weather remains good, Círdan will send them out in the next day or so."

"It is as bad as it seemed, then," said Lithuion gloomily, as he tossed another piece of driftwood onto the fire, where it hissed and sputtered.

"It is bad," Elrond admitted. "But not as bad as it could have been."

"Do you know why it happened?" asked Negen.

"No. No one does." Elrond took a pack from his saddle and tossed it to Negen. "Here, I am sure you are all hungry. There is lembas and some miruvor, and dried meat and fruit."

"May Elbereth bless you all your days!" exclaimed one of the sailors Elrond did not know, as the group descended on the bag. They did not look terribly hungry, but seaweed and what fish they could catch had surely gotten old. The miruvor especially lifted spirits all around, and as night fell the clouds parted, a little, and they cheered to see stars peeking through.

Elrond remained with them for four days, until a ship was spotted, and Lithuion and Negen piled damp wood onto their fire to get it smoking. There was much cheering and laughter and dancing when the ship turned towards them, and let down lifeboats. Elrond remained until the rescued sailors were all safely aboard before kicking sand and damp dirt over the remains of the fire, and setting off again.

He found no more shipwrecks or sailors. He turned south and east to return home, seeing what could be seen of the damage farther inland, and finding the land much changed. New maps would need to be drawn. It was very quiet; all wildlife had fled, and only birds were returning. The land still shook sometimes, the worst of it far away now so that Elrond only felt the smallest of tremors. The clouds returned, and it rained off and on, and one night he spent huddled with his horse against a newly-risen outcropping of rock while the wind wailed about them and thunder crashed overhead.

When Elrond returned to Forlond, Erestor rode out to meet him. "Elrond!" he called. "Elrond, come look!" He turned toward the coast, to a bluff over what remained of the city, and Elrond followed, wondering what new disaster had befallen them. But when he caught up with Erestor—and with Círdan who stood leaning on a staff, his hair loose and blowing in the breeze—he found them looking not down at the harbor but out over the water. Elrond followed Erestor's pointing finger and felt his jaw drop.

Ships. There were ships on the horizon, four of them, white sails like beacons on the dark water. "Those are not our ships," said Círdan.

"Númenor," Elrond breathed. Finally, they would have news.

His relief, however, was short-lived. He stood with Gil-galad at the new make-shift harbor when the first boat limped in to dock. Its sails that had seemed so pristine at a distance were tattered and patched, and the crew and passengers that stood on the deck were hollow-eyed and quiet. The first to disembark was Elendil, looking haggard with dark circles under his eyes and new strands of pale grey in his hair where there had been none when Elrond had last seen him. He bowed to Gil-galad, but did not bother with formal greetings. "Númenor is gone," he said.

The tale was harrowing. Meneltarma had erupted, and a great storm had come out of the West to drown the island; Elendil and his ships had only barely escaped, for they had been on the water already. There were five more, but in the storms the fleet had been separated, and he did not know if his sons had survived the voyage. Elendil relayed the story without emotion; he spoke and moved as one in a dream. So did many of his followers. The Faithful already in Lindon had swiftly taken charge of them, though no one seemed to know what to do.

After a few weeks, Elendil's wife Sírien came to Elrond. She was a proud woman that reminded him a little of the stories of Morwen. "We are forever grateful to you and King Gil-galad for your friendship and aid," she said, "but we cannot stay here. You must rebuild your own homes, and we need to make one anew. But when I speak to Elendil he does not hear me. Will you speak to him, please?"

He found Elendil on the bluff where he had stood with Círdan and Erestor watching the ships first come into view. Elendil stood staring blankly out at the sea. "Did Sírien send you?" he asked without turning.

"She is worried," Elrond said. "As am I. When did you last eat?"

"Last night." Elendil glanced at him then. "I knew something terrible would happen," he said. "I tried to warn Pharazôn. But he would not listen to anyone but Sauron, in the end…do you think he is destroyed? Sauron, I mean."

Elrond had, truthfully, forgotten about Sauron. He should not have. "I cannot say," he said. "I fear not."

"I knew something would happen," Elendil repeated, "but I did not think that it would all be lost. Not like that."

"I am sorry," Elrond said quietly. They stood for a long while in silence, listening to the waves. In the west a glimmer of blue sky could be seen.

"What would you have me do?" Elendil asked at last.

"Look forward," Elrond said. "Look east. Build something new."

"Is that what you would do?" Elendil asked after a few moments.

"It is what Elros would have done," Elrond said. "It is what Elros did."

Elendil's lips quirked in a small smile. "I suppose it is." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar ring. "We could not save the other heirlooms of the Edain," he said, "but we saved this." It was the Ring of Barahir, that Elrond had not seen since he had insisted that Elros take it, as well as the other heirlooms they had been given after the War of Wrath, with him to Númenor. Their mother had worn it on a chain around her neck when they were small; once, Finrod Felagund had worn it in glittering Nargothrond. It was a little piece of the best of the First Age, kept safe through war and time and catastrophe.

"Come," said Elrond. "Let me tell you of Lake Nenuial." They turned together away from the sea, talking of cities and roads and a future east of the Ered Luin.


End file.
